When I was in high school in the late ’80s, I took a job baby-sitting for a single mother with a 9-year-old boy. I didn’t know the family well. The father was absent from the situation, and the mother appeared overwhelmed. The kid ran the show, and he got what he wanted by throwing fits, stomping his feet and pouting. The mother doted on her son, and spoke to him in a syrupy baby talk that made my skin crawl.
On my first day on the job, the mother took me on a tour of the house. When we got to her bedroom, the bed was unmade on both sides, and we stood there uncomfortably while I cringed at the thought that this rather unpleasant woman had not slept alone. After a moment of silence, the mother shrugged apologetically and fessed up: her sleeping companion was her son. Given that I was a teenager and felt I was an expert on child psychology, I quickly determined that the child’s behavioral problems were linked to the fact that he still slept with his mother.
Some 25 years later, I’m married with two teenage stepchildren and a 9-year old daughter. Because of our unique situation (five people in a three-bedroom home, custody schedules, etc.), the sleeping arrangements can get quite creative. Yet one thing remains consistent: on Tuesday nights, my husband sleeps on the couch in the living room, and my 9-year-old daughter sleeps with me.
Confessing this publicly is not easy, because I’m a highly opinionated woman who has been known to change her mind on a variety of issues. Before the birth of my daughter, I bragged endlessly about my plans to breastfeed. Yet despite a large investment in a private lactation consultant and a breast pump that rivaled a Dyson DC41 Animal, I produced about four drops of milk. As soon as I cracked open the first can of formula, I shut my mouth and got back to taking care of business, and life was better for all of us, most important, our infant.
So despite the fact that I once thought that a 9-year-old sleeping with a parent was a terrible idea, I have to eat my words. I don’t know exactly how the Tuesday night sleepovers started, but it’s one of my favorite nights of the week. I work full time, and this is time I spend catching up with my daughter. We hop in bed, talk about our days, watch lousy TV and cuddle.
Unlike the conversations in the car, where I’m distracted or stressed, or the big family dinners, when everyone talks at the same time, our sleepover nights allow for uninterrupted time to tackle the Big Questions of Life. I’ll hear about problems at school, answer questions on religion, and attempt to explain puberty without sounding like a seventh-grade health teacher. Most of these nights, my daughter asks me to sing her to sleep, and I bask in the glory that at this point in her life, she still thinks I can sing like Adele.
Take an informal poll of other parents, and you may discover that unique sleeping arrangements are not unusual. Several single, divorced mothers have confessed to me that they let their kids sleep with them. It’s for a variety of reasons – some do it because they feel they can be closer to protect their child, others admit it’s filling a void and easing the aftermath of a tough divorce. Some parents tell me that an occasional sleepover with a kid isn’t a big deal at all. And then you have parents who have taken the Ferber Method so seriously that the mere thought of having their kid in bed with them sends them straight to the child psychologist.
At the end of the day, it’s about choices. I am going to blink twice, and my 9-year-old, who already practices rolling her eyes at me like a sassy-pants teenager, is going to have absolutely zero interest in hanging out with me, much less participate in a sleepover. So until things change, I’ll cherish our Tuesday nights, and keep on cranking out the lullabies as long as I have a daughter who requests them.